


i find you all unwoven

by AdmirableMonster (Mertiya)



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Psychological Horror, Sirion, Tragedy, fugue state, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:13:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28601244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/AdmirableMonster
Summary: Maedhros wakes after Sirion and searches for his brother.
Relationships: Elrond Peredhel & Maedhros | Maitimo, Maedhros | Maitimo & Maglor | Makalaurë, Maglor & Elrond & Elros
Comments: 21
Kudos: 41





	i find you all unwoven

**Author's Note:**

> title from The Rockrose and the Thistle by The Amazing Devil

The mists of the river rise to cover many evils.They cannot cover this one.The smell of blood suffuses everything.Maedhros tries to wipe his forehead, and his stump comes away bloody.He does not think he is injured, but he is not sure.There are frightening gaps in his memory.

He knows the Ambarussa are dead.He found them, he thinks, or perhaps he saw them die.He’s looking for someone.He can’t quite remember who, or why.They should never have come here.He knows it.He knew it.Maglor shouted at him for three hours, and he would not change his mind.Maglor had not helped him stop Doriath.He had tried so hard to stop Doriath, and in the end it all slid away from him anyway.

Why should Maglor try to halt Sirion?What is one more massacre to put to their account?

Maglor.Perhaps that is who he was looking for.He must find his little brother.The world is so foggy.Is that why his head is foggy too?Maglor.Yes, yes, he must find Maglor; he must protect his little brother.The only one left.He has failed all the others.

He finds footprints in the mud, small for an Elf.The imprint beside them of a sword, but not dragged, simply pressed into the mud every so often.He was leaning on his sword.Maedhros takes care not to step into the mud himself.He cannot leave a trace of his presence.If he can track Maglor, someone else could track him.

He follows the trail as the mud turns to pale churned sand.There is a clear dragging trail of rust in that sand.From Maglor’s blade?Or was he hurt?No, no, he can’t have been hurt.Maedhros has to protect him.Maedhros has to keep him safe.

He finds the body of another Elf stretched across the trail.One of their own followers, he thinks vaguely, dead of a sword wound to the gut.Maglor could be very deadly with a blade, but why would he attack one of their own?

The sea-gulls are crying, or is it his little brother’s voice, calling out for help?Once when they were children at the sea-side in Valinor, little Makalaurë slipped away from the rest and wandered off.When the tree-lights were mixing, Fëanáro and Nerdanel could not find him.They all wandered up and down the beach calling for him, but it was Maitimo who paused to _listen_.It was Maitimo who heard him singing songs that echoed the songs of the gulls, who threaded out the little difference between his new young brother’s voice and the voices of the sea-birds.He cannot hear a difference now, but his ears are ringing in the aftermath of slaughter.

“Káno!” he calls.The birds screech back. 

A little further along, he hears something else.A soft, high sobbing.“Káno!” he calls again.Is his little brother frightened?“Where are you?I will take you home, it’s all right!”Where are their parents—no, no, their father died long ago, in a pyre of his own making.Their mother must hate them by now.

He sees, almost fetched up against the pier, a little bundle, blue and red and black.It must his brother who lies there.It must be his brother who is crying in pain.Maedhros runs, his heart pounding in his chest, his brother’s name upon his lips.What if he is _hurt_?He cannot be hurt.

He is not hurt.Not anymore.

Maglor’s lips are blue; his eyes are open.The blood soaking his blue tunic around the vicious rent is dried black and crusted.Huddled in his arm is the body of a dark-haired child.The sword-stroke that opened his belly has cut the boy nearly in two; no doubt he died almost instantly.Maglor, Maedhros thinks—Maglor did not.A wound like this must have bled for a long time.He must have cried.He must have been in pain.

He died alone.

He came to Sirion for Maedhros, because Maedhros would not listen to him, and he died alone.

Maedhros hears a fearful roaring in his ears; he can still hear his little brother sobbing.No—no, there is another child.Another dark-haired little boy crawls out of Maglor’s robes.His face is blotched with tears.Terrified, he stumbles across the sand towards Maedhros, more fearful, perhaps, of being left with the two corpses than of the murderer who stands before him.

“Please take me!” the little Elf sobs.“Please don’t leave me here again!”

“I’m sorry,” Maedhros whispers numbly, gathering the child into his arms. What has he done?How many times has he— “I’m sorry, I won’t, I won’t.”But he cannot leave the others here.Not here, not where the wild animals will find them and nibble the flesh from their bones in bites and bits.

He hefts the child onto his hip and holds him close.He is so small, this dark-haired little boy, Maedhros thinks vaguely.He needs a big brother, doesn’t he?His brother is dead.Both their brothers are dead.

Maedhros should be crying; he is sure he should be crying.But his eyes are dry, dry as bone, dry as sand, dry as ash.Dry as the blood crusted on Maglor’s robes.He can lift both his brother and the other little boy with one arm, they are so small.They are stiff, but if he tilts the bodies forward enough he can tuck Maglor’s face into his shoulder, and if he only looks at that wild curling dark hair—Maglor could be sleeping.

He will need to find them fire.He will need to find them food.The little boy is still crying. “Hush, little one,” Maedhros tells him gently.“You’re safe now.You have my oath.” _No, no_ , the wind whispers in Maglor’s voice, _do not swear so, do not swear so_ , but Maedhros is past listening.What does it matter now, in any case? 

The sea-gulls scream in his brother’s voice as he climbs the gently-sloping hill of the shore back up towards the deserted city.This child and Maedhros may be the only living things left.

_Oh, Káno, what have I done, what have I done, what have I done to thee?_

The wind moans a dirge and lament for the dead.But there is no one left to sing a lament for the living.No one at all.

**Author's Note:**

> uh y'all can 100% blame daphnerunning for expounding to me on the older Silm version where Mags dies at Sirion and Mae just has...Elrond...haha my hand...slipped...


End file.
